


i'm the guy who makes the bodies (not the guy who erases the bodies)

by oncewewerezombies



Series: Diamonds and Clubs Month [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Chucklevoodoos, Derse and Prospit, Hemospectrum, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mind Control, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Scary Clowns, deliberate disablement, territorial partner, unexplored canon moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 05:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: The Prince of Rage utilises the Mage of Doom.





	i'm the guy who makes the bodies (not the guy who erases the bodies)

**Author's Note:**

> 4\. Blank Space

Your moirail is a trusting sort of motherfucker; at least, he trusts you. Maybe that is only to be expected. You've been pale for each other a real motherfucking long time, ain't nothing new. You'd met at one of those fucking cullee jaunts, where the cullers come to show off their lil charges and gossip about how well they doing keeping those lil helpless broken fuckers in check. You'd been there so you could be shown the ropes, learn how to handle some motherfuckers what needed looking after - Mituna had been there because of some shit that the fuckers in charge reckoned was going on with his pan, meaning as he was there as one of the motherfuckers that got culled. You been good and faithful for all your life is what it feels like, but Mituna had been like a firework going off in the enclosed spaces of Beforus. Loud, raucous, kicking up a real hellmirthful noise when you couldn't get yourself to more than a low monotone.

Not to say you didn't enjoy making speech with folks, when it came to that. Just that finding people you wanted to make conversation the fuck with was a bit harder. Mituna had gotten under your skin and then just stayed there, like an unrelenting shard of diamond wedged into your pusher. Y'ain't never gonna be giving up on him, but right now, you need him for more than just his motherfucking hands and ability to shooshpap like a pornstar. He's got a real motherfucking gift for papping, you don't know where the fuck he gets it from.

Maybe you oughta feel guilty. You're using your moirail. You're gonna use him and you don't know how that use is gonna wind up leaving him. But this is something that you need to do, you know that there is something. Someone. Waiting for you to get your fucking move on and find your god damn higher purpose. There's what the tempestuous fishbitch wants you to do, what she thinks is your purpose in what she considers _her_ Game but you know there's greater, better waiting happenings for you and only you.

You'll do whatever it takes to get there.

Even this.

Besides, he's your moirail. He oughta be pleased that he's being of such motherfucking use to you, helping you fulfil your destiny. It's waiting, and you will not continue to ignore that sacred call no fucking longer. When doors are knocked upon, it only stands right that a fucker should open it up, using whatever key comes to fucking grasping stub. Mituna will forgive you after, he always does when you get fucking selfish on shit. He's good like that. He's such a fool to pity one such as you, and you adore that idiocy of his nature. You got two such sweet and trusting souls in your pity quadrants, it brings a motherfucking tear to your god damn eye.

"I'm not fuckin' convinced that this is gonna do what you want, 'Loz," Mituna says, running his fingers through the unruly mop of his hair. The jumpsuit he's wearing has a rip in the elbow already, yellow scrape just visible on his gray skin; guess he been somewhere fourwheel-boarding, probably with the teal bitch that he calls his matesprit. He ain't presentable in no motherfucking way and never has been, this moirail of yours. You smile at him, showing your fangs before dropping down to sit on the grass. He flops next to you, both of you an ungainly pile of limbs on the soft sort of grass that the hill of Prospit offers its dreamers to look upon its clouds. You have learned all that the horrorterrors are willing to teach you and it was those netherspawn that gave you your chance, your opening to see where you could learn _more_.

"Have faith, bro." You stretch your arms up above your head, looking up at clouds that show nothing to you. Not yet. They're going to show you what you need though, you have faith. Through your strength of will and your moirail, you're gonna split these motherfuckers open like a globefruit with a hatchet and suck out all the sweetness on the inside. "You ready to do the Doom-y thing?"

"You ready to suck this bulge?" your moirail fires back and you chuckle, tired of his perversity but willing to pretend that you are not so that you can keep him willing and sweet until you're inside to where you need to be. It's always easier if a motherfucker opens the door for you. And he's more likely to be in one piece at the end, if he ain't fighting you from the get go. You don't want to break him, he's your precious moirail after the fuck all. But you're gonna get what you want. 

You pull on his frond to move him to you where you're lying sprawled, and the two of you wrestle on the sweet smelling pseudograss, just enjoying the feel of your husks. The inhalation, exhalation of breath. Pull of muscle on bone. Playful, wigglerish shenanigans. There's so much important shit to do, and you need to get the fuck on it but first, oh first, you need to soothe and pacify your moirail to the point where he hands over the motherfucking reins. You're gonna ride this motherfucker like a loa, you're gonna make him speak on miracles and GET SOME MOTHERFUCKING FAITH RIGHT IN HIM. 

"Ok, ok! I give!" Mituna is under you, and you can feel the fake sun warm like the moon never had been against your back. Your graspers have hold of his wrists, and you stare into his mismatched freakfuck eyes. One blue, one red, something sparkling in the depths like the broken ends of live electrical wires. If he wanted to, he could throw you straight to the next motherfucking planet in your ring a ring a rosie of game-gathered globes. He squirms, and you keep your grip firm but not painful. You don't wanna hurt your motherfucking soft moirail if it ain't a required thing. Capitulation is sweet, as it always is. "Alright, let's do it. I'll do the doom-y thing."

He acts like this is a motherfucking joke, some kind of japery that you're pulling on every other fucker but not him. Oh no, you'd never do that to _your moirail_. Instead of letting the rage in you boil up like you oughta be able to, like you should - you smile. You're a mask of a troll, always showing what is needed and very fucking rarely letting on to what you feel on the inside. A culler needs to be able to control their emotions. A highblood should always consider how their actions will effect the weaker, pitiful lowbloods right the fuck around them. Gotta coddle those motherfuckers. Gotta make sure they're well fucking protected. If nothing else, the training you'd undergone had made sure you knew well and motherfucking certain how to lie with every part of you.

"It won't take fucking long, and we'll go do something else after, my most radical of brothers," you promise, and you get yourself settled. Sitting cross-legged, you let him lay his head in your lap. His horns aren't short but they ain't long enough to cause troubles like yours would have. You set your palms on his temples, fingers angled towards his chin and look up at the clouds. Those blank, perfect clouds. Pretending like they didn't have any fucking secrets to show you at all. "Ready?"

"Yeah, do it, bro," Mituna says and he looks up into your eyes, and you let yourself in. Knock knock, the boogieman is here, and this hapless motherfucker just invited him inside. Silver platter. The best service. You slide yourself into his thinkpan, easing down through his thoughts as he breathes in and out real regular and soft, feeling out the space that is Doom on the inside of his thinkpan. You know what it's like, you've been in and through all the parts of your moirail's pan before. This ain't undiscovered virgin land to you. He probably doesn't realise just how deep and thorough you've gone but that's fine, that ain't no worry. It's better for the two of you now, ain't it? Besides, you need to know how he ticks so as you can fix him right the fuck up.

And now, you need to know so's that you can put the Doom thing to your Rage thing and really MOTHERFUCKING SEE WHAT THERE IS TO SEE.

You can feel your glancenuggets strobing purple, purple, purpleredblueredbluepurpleredpurpleblue and you open your maw in a soundless scream as you tear your gaze from your moirail's and look up. UP UP UP. The clouds - the clouds -

Your fronds spasm, crushing at Mituna's head between your palms and his scream ain't so soundless as yours. But your grip is too tight and no matter how he writhes, he ain't getting free. Not until you're MOTHERFUCKING done.

"Kur - loz -" he chokes out, and you ignore him. There are glimmers in the clouds - pictures - you can see _Him_ \- YOU SEE HIM - you see the LORD of DOUBLE DEATH, surrounded by His angels and you know - you know you know you know - you know your purpose. It strikes you like a lightening bolt, terrible pure knowledge delivered down your spine in a chilling rush. Mituna is making terrible noises in your lap, in your hands, your powers stringing through him and keeping him jerking to your purposes but you keep ignoring him, keep pushing the Doom thing to work as you feel the euphoria of being part of creation. Of being CONNECTED.

Of BEING.

You see what your purpose is and what you are to do. You see everything - everything that is needed. All the parts of the costume for the true agent of your LORD. You see HIM, His oculars spinning colours and numbers, endless, ceaseless. You see - you see - so many things that don't make sense to you, you see aliens, you see trolls with wings, you see all sorts of motherfucking things and you can feel your jawbones near cracking with the strain of your soundless, endless scream as your thinkpan is flooded to bursting with all of the knowledge that you've been given to know. You see your death, you see how all of you - ALL OF YOU - fucking die but don't die, you're still there even in death and you'll be ready. You'll be waiting, WAITING for the envoy of the LORD to come and you will serve him, you will ensure that he is READY to meet all the demands of your mutual LORD.

The clouds burn in your eyes like fucking magnesium, like blinding fireworks and you gaze on them with your naked sightnuggets like they ain't burning a brother to the god damn bone. Ruthlessly, you keep Mituna on track and in check, making sure you can wring every drop out of those motherfucking Prospitian clouds as you fucking can. Your whole fucking head feels swollen with what you know when you finally pull away and stop forcing Mituna's pan to act as a fucking lens to your need to know. You let go.

You let go.

Mituna's head lolls in your lap like an empty doll's, and there's yellow blood running from his sniffnode and his auricular clots. The spark in his blue-red eyes has gone dim, even as he stares up at you senselessly. He's stopped screaming and you let out a deep breath, feeling all your prophetic knowledge settle into place like shifting sands on rock. Filling up all the crevices of your ignorance, so now you gotta a straight skeletal strut made of PURPOSE.

You knew there was better, greater waiting for you and now you motherfucking have it. You have seen the LORD and you are ready to serve. Hail, hail. You won't let Him down. You'll serve your holy purpose, and you'll do all the string-pulling you need to in order to ensure that every other fucker does too.

"Thank you, diamond mine," you murmur and lean down to press your lips to his forehead. He's done you and your Lord a great service, even if he didn't know what he was gonna give up going in. You can feel the stress-fractures in his mind, and you ease yourself back in so you can tidy up. Wipe out a few inconvenient remembrances, and get him back together so he can do what's needed for the coming nights. Even though he's done his greatest work for the Lord already, that don't mean he still ain't needed.

Besides, waste not want not, ain't that fucking so. You might need him again. And it'd be a mistake to let a Mage of Doom slip through your frondstubs like water through a net. What's happened here isn't a mistake - it's what was exactly fucking needed. You know that now. You know so many fucking things.

"Thank you, Mituna," you say again, and stretch back to wait for him to come back into his newly shattered self. You clean him the fuck up, make him presentable. Already, you're thinking of how to explain this to everyone else. You already know they're going to believe you and your crooked words. You know some night you ain't gonna have any more words to say, and that your kittybitch is going to bear the brunt of it. Sad. But sacrifices must be fucking made. 

Your Lord thinks of all things, and you're aching to get to the place where you can be of real fucking service to Him.


End file.
